We're standing close enough that I can smell his cologne and it makes me want to lean closer instead of stepping away like a sensible woman would. The setting sun is painting everything in shades of gold and amber, and if this were literally any other situation, it would be the most romantic moment of my life.
Instead, it's probably the most dangerous.
"Shall we have dinner?" he asks, and leads me to a dining room that's somehow both formal and intimate. The table is set for two with delicate antique china, and candles that cast everything in warm, flickering light.
A woman appears from the kitchen, older, kind-faced, wearing an apron that suggests she's the one responsible for whatever smells amazing.
"This is Maria," Enzo says. "She'll be serving dinner tonight."
Maria smiles at me and says something in rapid Italian that I don't catch but sounds welcoming. I smile back and manage a "Ciao, Maria" that makes her beam.
"Maria doesn't speak English," Enzo explains as he pulls out my chair. "But she's an excellent cook."
I sit down and try not to think about how this feels like a date instead of a debt negotiation. The chair is comfortable, the candles are romantic, and the man across from me is absolutely gorgeous despite being potentially dangerous.
This is so messed up.
Maria appears with a bottle of wine and Enzo pours for both of us without asking if I want any.
"To new arrangements," he says, raising his glass.
I don't toast to that, but I do take a sip because I need all the liquid courage I can get. The wine is incredible, of course. Everything in this place is incredible.
"So," I say, setting down my glass and trying to look more confident than I feel. "About this debt situation."
"Later," he says. "First, we’ll enjoy dinner. Maria has prepared something special."
"I'd rather discuss business first."
"I prefer to eat before conducting business. It’s better for your health."
There's something in his tone that suggests this isn't a request, so I nod and try to think of safe conversation topics while Maria brings out the first course.
The food is amazing. A seafood dish that's been prepared in a way that makes it taste like the ocean decided to become art. The bread is warm and crusty and perfect for soaking up sauces I can't identify but definitely want to recreate.
"This is incredible," I say after the first few bites. "Maria is a fabulous cook."
"She's been with my family for many years," he says. "Her mother worked for my parents."
"You grew up here?"
"In this house, yes. Though it's been extensively renovated since then."
I try to picture him as a child running through these elegant rooms, and the image doesn't quite compute. "What was it like, growing up in a place like this?"
Something shuts down in his expression. "Privileged. Also lonely at times."
Apparently, childhood is not a safe conversation topic.
"What about you?" he asks. "What was your childhood like in America?"
"Normal," I say, then realize how inadequate that sounds. "Suburban. My parents got divorced when I was twelve, but it was pretty amicable. They both remarried people who are actually better suited to them. I have step-siblings now who I only see at Christmas, but they're nice enough."
"And what brought you to Sicily?"
The question I've been dreading. "I needed a change."
"From what?"
